Fluffy Draco
by Caporal
Summary: When Draco Malfoy wakes up in a strange and terrible mental state, it is up to Blaise Zabini to enlist the aid of Harry Potter to try and get to the bottom of his condition. Warning: H/D slash and fluffiness.


Disclaimer:Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Ginny Weasley and Voldemort all belong to JK Rowling. Blaise Zabini and Graham Pritchard also belong to the abovementioned, but she has done so little with them that I would like to claim their personalities. Cocoa butter was the invention of PhoenixSnog126, brilliant and inspired woman that she is. Any lyrics are not mine, thank any and all deities. In short, if you've seen it, it's not mine, and if you haven't, it's probably the collective property of the Slasher's Coven.  
  
A/N: This was written for a challenge at the FA Slasher's Coven. If you don't know what that is, you obviously have nothing to do with HP slash and I don't know what you might be doing here. Needless to say, this is slash, but perhaps worse, it's about as fluffy as cotton candy and contains Backstreet Boys lyrics.. Please remember that all is in jest and forgive me someday.  
  
Fluffy!Draco  
  
Draco Malfoy had lost his mind.  
  
The first to realize this was Blaise Zabini. Crabbe and Goyle had come to him, looking very lost, asserting that something was dreadfully wrong with their leader. Blaise had sighed and followed them up to the sixth-year dorms, rather disgruntled. Malfoy the Drama Queen had probably developed a spot on his nose and was sulking. It wouldn't have been the first time.  
  
But as the three ascended the stairs, it became apparent to Blaise that the situation was much, much worse than that. Something that might reasonably have been called music reached his ears, a mournful sort of warbling sound floating out of the dorm room. When they entered, they found Malfoy, lounging on his bed in grey silk pyjamas, watching the dust motes floating around the wrought-iron chandelier. Above his feet, a record was spinning in midair, the obvious source of the music. Malfoy was sadly singing along to it.  
  
**"Show me the meaning of being lonely,  
  
Is this the feeling I need to walk with?  
  
Tell me why I can't be there where you are...  
  
There's something missing in my heart."**  
  
*Curiouser and shit like that*, thought Blaise. He'd seen most of Malfoy's strange moods over the past six years, and he'd thought he'd seen them all, but this was a new one.  
  
Malfoy turned his head and gazed at the newcomers.  
  
"Blaise. Vince. Greg." he said. "Why do you so rudely interrupt my misery? Can you not leave me to dwell on the meaninglessness of...everything in peace?"  
  
This time, Blaise went so far as to raise his eyebrows. First names and the tongue of rotting flowers. Something was rotten in the state of mind of Draco Malfoy. He stepped forwards.  
  
"Shut that noise off, Malfoy. What the hell's wrong with you?"  
  
In answer, Malfoy waved his wand at the record, and it switched to another tune, which nonetheless was possessed of the same warbling, whining quality of the first.  
  
"*"Ain't nothing but a heartache,  
  
Ain't nothing but a mistake-"**  
  
It was at this point that Blaise Summoned the revolving disc out of the air and into his hand. Clutching it firmly to his chest, he glared at Malfoy.  
  
"You're telling me you're in *love?*" he asked skeptically. Malfoy, he was sure, had gone through achy breaky heart phases before, but it had never been displayed like this, and Malfoy, the poster boy for repressed desire, had never been one to *mope*.  
  
Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but Blaise cut him off. "*Don't* sing. Answer in prose. Nice, plain, everyday language."  
  
It was to no avail.  
  
"Harry is dead, and my heart also", he replied wistfully.  
  
Blaise stood there for perhaps five seconds before leaning in and violently shaking Malfoy's shoulders.   
  
"Harry...*Potter?* What do you think you're *at*, Malfoy? No, you aren't Malfoy at all, are you?" He peered into the other's grey eyes, looking for the betraying glint of an impostor. But Malfoy just gazed back at him with what were more akin to voluminous silver orbs, and did not reply. "Potter isn't even dead, and since when did you...Oh, for Christsakes, just *stay there*."  
  
Blaise turned to go. He pried apart Crabbe and Goyle, who had taken the opportunity to have a snogfest behind the door.   
  
"*Don't* let him out, on pain of being slipped a Love Potion in the presence of McGonagall.", he warned.  
  
They nodded, and stationed themselves in front of the door, their clasped hands forming an impassable barrier across the threshold.  
  
*********************  
  
"Potter, I...need your help."  
  
The addressee looked up from his breakfast quizzically. "Zabini? What are you- What d'you want?"  
  
"I told you: your help, It's about Malfoy..."  
  
The exchange was cordial enough; Blaise had dated Ginny Weasley at the beginning of the year, and the Gryffindors had felt an obligation to be reasonable towards the youngest Weasley's choice. That had been before it had become apparent that Ginny was probably going to date *everyone* in fourth year and up indiscriminately, and they had all sighed and pretended not to notice at what ungodly hours she came climbing through the portrait hole.  
  
"Why should I care what happens to Malfoy?"  
  
"You shouldn't. Really, who does? But do you want the blood of yours truly on your conscience?"  
  
What, he's threatening you and you want me to distract him? Sorry Zabini, not my problem."  
  
"Fuck no, Potter. What do you take me for? No. Malfoy's nuts. Crazy. Insane. If it lasts, his father is sure to find out. Heads, mine among them, will roll. This concerns you, anyway. When I found him this morning, he was..."  
  
But Potter was staring at Blaise with dawning comprehension. He groaned.  
  
"Was he talking like a flower?" Blaise nodded.  
  
"And depressed and playing mercifully nonexistent Muggle music?"  
  
"Yes, how did you-"  
  
"And wearing grey silk and...being heartbroken?"  
  
"It's happened before, then?"  
  
"Yeah." Potter looked vaguely sick "Crabbe and Goyle used to go to Nott, but I heard he threatened them with death, disembowelment and breakup if they ever approached him with Malfoy's...condition again."  
  
"So what do we *do* with him?"  
  
"Nothing. That's *my* job."  
  
"...What?  
  
"You heard me." Potter stood up resignedly, careful not to dislodge his two best friends from their precarious perch at the edge of the table (by the looks of things, they wouldn't have noticed if Voldemort came flying from the rafters dressed in nothing but cocoa butter, and certainly wouldn't register it if their best friend knocked them to the ground and left the hall with a Slytherin), "I'm the only one who can fix...it."  
  
It didn't occur to Blaise to be surprised at Potter's evident knowledge of the location of the Slytherin dorms; he was too busy wondering just what was wrong with Malfoy, and what Potter had to do with anything. When they reached the dungeons, he spoke the password before remembering that he was in the presence of a Gryffindor.  
  
"Don't-"  
  
"S'okay. I won't... Gryffindor honour." he added wryly, knowing Blaise would be unimpressed.  
  
Blaise just rolled his eyes and stepped inside. As it was the middle of breakfast, the common room was empty, except for a third year named Graham Pritchard, who took one look at the pair, grinned at Blaise and whistled appreciatively, then turned around and appeared oblivious to their presence. Blaise glared daggers at Pritchard's back. Potter merely snorted.  
  
In the sixth-year boy's dorm, they found that Crabbe and Goyle had abandoned their posts, and were nowhere to be seen, although there were some highly suspicious sounds emanating from Malfoy's gigantic wardrobe. It didn't seem to matter though, because Malfoy appeared not to have moved since Blaise had left the room. Potter turned to him and motioned him to be quiet, then tiptoed around to Malfoy's bed and leaned down.  
  
Blaise watched with a sort of detached fascination as Potter ran his hands through Malfoy's hair and kissed him tenderly on the cheek, fully expecting to be the sole witness when the Boy Who Lived became the Boy Who Was Dismembered, But Malfoy looked up with a sort of half-gasp, and reached up to stroke Potter's face.  
  
"Harry?" he said wonderingly, "I-I thought you were *dead!*"  
  
"Of course I'm not dead, Dray," Potter replied tenderly, and Blaise wondered idly what would happen if he ever addressed Malfoy as such. "You know I'll never go anywhere without you." And then he kissed Malfoy on the mouth.  
  
It seemed like hours before they finally came up for air. Blaise was rooted to the spot, considering emergency memory charms, but snapped out of his stupor when Potter looked up and spied the record he had tossed away earlier that morning. It was set spinning again, as Malfoy ran his hands over every inch of Potter's upper body, as though trying to reassure himself that he wasn't hallucinating. Blaise rather wished he himself was. But then...  
  
**I'll be the one (I'll be the one) Who will make all your sorrows undone, I'll be the light (I'll be the light) When you feel like there's nowhere to run, I'll be the one..."**   
  
As he fled the room, Blaise could have sworn he heard Potter say  
  
  
  
"*Ourloveissopure*."   
  
But that was nonsensical.   
  
A/N: Just the standard prostitution for reviews. 


End file.
